The Promise of All Good Things
by Snowfilly
Summary: Sometimes, the ones we love the most also try our patience the most. Mickey considers whether he could ever live with Jack - or without him. Slash.


The Promise of All Good Things

Disclaimer – All characters / settings are the property of Thames TV' I have made no money from their use.

A/N – This follows directly from the episode 'Going Under'. This is in no way related to Heaven From Here 'verse, but this fic supposes that Jack and Mickey are currently in a relationship.

Rating is for Mickey's language – and a bit of innuendo. Mickey again.

How Mickey found him, Jack never did work out. One minute he and Sam were talking, laughing about his brush with death and finishing a bottle of wine, and the next, Mickey was there at their table. He wasn't laughing.

'Hi, Mick. You want a drink?'

The DC was dressed just as he had been at work three hours earlier. He hadn't even thought about Mickey since leaving Sun Hill – he'd kissed him goodbye this morning and then got caught up in hunting Summers, assuming Mickey would be there when he went home later, just as he always was.

'You stupid bastard.' Mickey said it monotone, as though he didn't care, blue eyes never flickering. 'You stupid...shit, you could have ballsed all that up. Coulda got shot.'

'Mickey!' Sam snapped at him.

'No, it's okay. Sit down, Mickey.'

'Don't want to.' He folded his arms across his chest, the leather jacket creaking. 'You...'

He'd watched Mickey for years. Knew the catch in his voice, the too quick swallowing although he hadn't seen his partner this upset for years. Knew the way Mickey couldn't say anything coherent, knew that anger was hiding fear.

'Leave it, Mickey. Sorry, guv.'

Sam must have seen the look on his face. Jack stood carefully, extending one hand to Mickey as a silent apology. However sick and terrified he'd felt earlier, however much he'd enjoyed – in a way – the hunt, didn't mean he'd been right to leave Mickey behind.

'Look at me. I'm okay.'

He wrapped his arms around Mickey and just held him. Every touch familiar, from Mickey's clean shaven face pushing against his, to the strong muscles in his back, still easy to feel even under the jacket. 'Honestly, I'm okay.'

'I thought you'd get your stupid fucking self shot. I was listening to that wire get up, Jack. Why do you never bloody listen?'

Over Mickey's shoulders, he could see Sam glaring. Jack didn't care; he was the senior officer, he could yell at Mickey if he wanted to. He couldn't. Part of him, a part that he hated, was pleased because Mickey only got that aggressive when he was afraid.

Mickey's hands moved, from grasping at the back of Jack's coat to his face, fingers splayed gently over his cheeks to hold his head still. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and he knew what Mickey wanted.

'Don't.' He managed to make it sound like an order, but when had he ever been able to order Mickey around?

He heard Sam gasp and Mickey sigh. Then it was just sensations, taste. Mickey's tongue in his mouth, with no finesse or grace, but a desperate need. He tasted of scotch.

Jack kissed him back.

Let Sam and the others make whatever they wanted out of it. Anything to stop Mickey feeling that desperate.

And then Mickey was standing casually in his arms, leaning against him and smirking. The silence in the bar made his skin prickle- he'd been a copper long enough to know antagonism when he felt it.

Sam was staring at them.

'Mickey, I think we should leave now. C'mon.'

'You – you think that can bloody well get yourself taken hostage just because you're showing off, and then try to order me around?'

'No.' God, Mickey felt good in his arms. How could he have ever risked loosing this? Surely, loosing him would kill Mickey? 'But we should go.'

He tugged Mickey's arm, then decided that subtlety could go to Hell and took his hand. Dragged Mickey out to the car, while Sam followed and tried to pretend that she didn't know either of them. 'Where's your car?'

'Walked here. Was too bleeding drunk to do anyfing else.'

He watched Mickey sprawl across the passage seat of his car and stare up at him.

'I'll see you tomorrow, guv?'

'Yeah.' He glanced at Mickey, then back to Sam. A couple of years ago, he would have thought she was beautiful. 'Sam, if this gets out...'

'It won't.' She shook her head at them both. 'It explains why you never speak to him anymore, anyway. Night.'

'Night.' And if he didn't like the look on Sam's face, Mickey's expression was evil. 'What are you plotting?'

'Ways of stopping you killing yourself. Now, are we going home or what? And try not to cause anymore hold ups today.' His laughter had a brittle edge to it, anger and worry mixed.

'I won't. Don't worry.'

'I do.' There was a pause, then Mickey laughed. 'Bad choice of words there. Or good, depending on how you look at it.'

The drive back was silent and tense until they reached the last corner. Abruptly, Mickey asked 'Would you ever leave me, Jack?'

'No.'

'What if they were rich? Was someone you could go out with in public? Be seen with?'

'You did a pretty good job of sorting all that out earlier. I – I wouldn't mind if everyone knew, if that's what you wanted.'

'Huh.' Mickey folded his arms and stalked indoors, hovering around the front room as Jack tried to settle down. 'You're so stupid, Jack. Do you know that?'

'Yes. You've told me about eight times and counting. Sam told me. So did Heaton. I get the message.'

'I thought I'd lost you.' He stormed out to the bedroom, slamming the door, then coming back and slamming the kitchen door as he went past.

'Oi.'

Mickey was standing in front of him, hands buried in his pockets, staring at the ground.

'What, Mickey?' Somehow, he kept his temper, although Mickey was reminding him vividly of Ben as a sulky teenager.

'I'd die if I lost you, Jack.' Awkwardly, he smiled. 'I love you.'

'I know. Both.'

'Dying is not some grand romantic gesture, understand? Dying for me is romantic. Dying for some other stupid bloody reason is not, understand?'

'Yes, Mickey,' and he fought to keep down a hint of a smile.

'And this might make you think twice next time, you stupid bloody Dalesman.' He pulled something from his jeans pocket, laid it on Meadows' hand.

A ring.

'Hey...hey, Mickey. Is this a proposal?'

'Not. It's a way of making sure that I get half the house when you do get yourself killed.' He blinked a couple of times, tears glittering in his eyes. 'Of course it's a damn proposal. I was saving it for your birthday or something but I figured I'd best get around to it before you get shot. The pension's mine, that way.'

The ring in his palm gleamed like the promise of all good things. He knew that it was right; he could never have asked Mickey, because the younger man would have said yes regardless; he knew there was only one answer he could give.

It didn't fit his finger well, but Mickey fitted into the circle of his arms.

'Of course.'

He felt the second Mickey stopped being angry at him; felt, rather than heard, the rumble of his delighted laughter. 'I was going to get on my knees, but I thought you might prefer that saved for later.'

'Yeah.'

He leant forward and kissed Mickey. Mickey, who would be the last person he ever kissed, the last person he ever took his to bed and his heart, and that would be alright. Would be fine.

A few minutes later, Mickey slipped away and came back with chocolate biscuits and a can of lager. 'If I'd known it was going to be tonight, I would have stocked up on some champagne or something.'

'Your turn to shop, then.'

'Huh.' Mickey joined him on the settee, leaning against him. 'You make it sound like we're married already.'

'I'll drag you around the antiques shops,' and he was glad to see Mickey smile.

'I love antiques. Why'd ya think I asked you to marry me?'

'Oi!'

They laughed. Laughed and drunk the cheap lager and played music and discussed breaking the news to CID. They loved, and they were happy.


End file.
